


Rokujō nikki

by queenhaggard



Category: Genji Monogatari | Tale of Genji - Murasaki Shikibu
Genre: Diary/Journal, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhaggard/pseuds/queenhaggard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An entry from the diary of the Rokujō lady, written in the aftermath of Lady Aoi's demise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rokujō nikki

What remains of my youth slips away from me more slowly than I can observe but more quickly than I can reckon, like leaves changing colors with the onset of autumn: one cannot see a difference in them from day to day, but looks up to find them suddenly dead and gone.  Do those leaves, like me, feel as though they are losing themselves as they turn with the seasons?  And do I only decay, as all things must, or is there a more sinister rot in my branches?

I do not feel at all like myself.  I justify writing my thoughts so gauchely with the hope that, by doing so, I may come to understand myself once more—to untangle the ugly knots in my heart. I do not pen this diary in the hope that it will be read, as so many noblewomen do nowadays (I find the idea of baring my inner thoughts to the world unseemly).  I intend to burn this book before I die, or to instruct my daughter to do so.  Perhaps she may read it first; I would not object strongly to that…

At any rate, _he_ must never read it.  That I will never allow.  He has taken enough from me, and given little enough in return.

But am I being uncharitable?  I feel as though I am.  After all, I do not think I understood the meaning of the word “love” before I met him.  Poetry catches shades of it, but to write of love with the intensity it deserves is to risk immodesty.  Truly experiencing passion, one understands why lovers speak to one another using poems.  They could say nothing about it otherwise, lest they frighten themselves and the world.

Love frightens me still, but not so much as I frighten myself.

His wife is dead, and though they say my spirit had a hand in her demise, I never wished her ill.  Didn’t I?  I do not know.  Wondering about it nauseates me.  I close my eyes and think I can still smell burning poppy seeds on my clothes and in my hair; I shudder, remembering my dreams about that poor woman, and know I am at fault.  All out of love for him!

If he gave me much by showing me what it means to love, he has taken much from me, too.  My troubles began long before I met him, but throughout them, I was at least able to maintain my dignity.  Now I have not even that to comfort me.

I think I must have been a very sinful person in a past life to deserve my current fate.  Not so long ago, I was fulfilling my minister father’s highest hopes for me: wed to the crown prince, and the mother of his child, I should have been an empress.  Instead I became a widow, and all my talents and sensibilities, the fruit of my family’s dearest expectations, were abruptly made redundant.  Despite that, I was determined to act as befitted an empress.  As I said, I still had my dignity, though I was reduced to living in the sixth ward; I could bury my loss in my skills and refinement, in an elegant aloofness that would remind everyone who met or heard of me me who I had been—who I was always meant to be.

All my efforts were nothing to him, however.  He did not so much break down the barriers I had put up between myself and the rest of the world as pass through them as though they did not exist.  No sooner did he show me the vanity of my defenses, enticing me to lower them so I might accept his ardor, than he was gone from my side, leaving me more alone and more exposed than I had ever been.  Like my future at court, my carefully-constructed barriers vanished in moments, and I was humbled—but now it is my heart and spirit that have been brought low, instead of my prospects and station.

How wretched am I, and how shamefully desperate I have become in his wake!  It is one thing for a young woman to be overwhelmed and undone by passion, but for one such as me, it is laughable (and the men and women of the court _do_ laugh; my maids gossip when they think I cannot hear).  My love for him has made me ridiculous, a parody of the proper woman I always strove to be. I think I could bear the shame if I had his love in return, but he has made his feelings clear.

My thoughts turn to the Kamo festival, and I want to… I don’t know what. To weep? I have wept enough already. The humiliation is less an open wound now than a scar. I prod it with my memories and feel a deeper, more profound ache, tinged with pangs of guilt for what happened after.

His wife is dead, and I—I am glad of it! I am truly wicked, to hear of her passing and think, _Now he must acknowledge me_ , _now he can no longer take me lightly_!  If he continues to ignore me, my disgrace will be complete, and I will go with my daughter to Ise, away from this vile world.

My daughter, if you do read this, heed your mother’s wish to the best of your ability: I hope that you will never know the kind of love from which I suffer.  It is the most exquisite feeling in the world, but therein lies the danger.  One cannot help but desire more of it.  It takes root in one’s heart and, if it is unreciprocated, it twists itself and that heart into something ugly; the owner has no choice but to become ugly along with it.

Daughter, remain a priestess if you can, and never fall in love: it has made a monster of me.


End file.
